Jetko Week 2013
by hell-whim
Summary: Collected entries for Jetko Week on tumblr.
1. Instinct

**It's Jetko Week on tumblr, and I decided to contribute a few little pieces!**

**Summary:** Jet, Zuko, the train station in Ba Sing Se, and a simple conversation.

**Prompt: Instinct**

Jet's always had a feel for it—which direction his target's gonna move, how the branches will break under his weight, when to smile, and when to back away. He's had years to practice, and plenty of different opportunities, between the forest and the kids and what was left of his home. So he knows—_feels—_when to touch Li's shoulder, when to give him a half-smile of assurance, and when to lean back against the wall.

"No," Li says softly. "I guess we don't really have plans."

Smile. Smile and glance away, then look back again. Except Jet doesn't meet Li's eyes the way he'd planned—instead his stare falls on Li's lips, as his thin pink tongue darts out to wet them.

"Bet I could help you find something to do," Jet says, answering an impulse to speak, to step a little closer, to reach up and smooth the strap of Li's sword sheath from where it twisted on his shoulder. Li breathes in sharply, a slight flush rising up his throat, and Jet knows now is the time to back away, to slap the smile on and laugh, gently. "Hey, I think your uncle's wandering off again."

Li collects the old man, exasperation hiding his blush.

"We'll get you tea in the city," he says. "I don't even think that stuff was warm."

"Such a waste," the old man sighs.

"C'mon, then," Jet says. "I say we see what this city's got."

He slings the meager bags over his shoulder and sets off. He can't help grinning a bit, when he hears Li fall in line right behind him.


	2. AU

**Summary:** Before the asylum, before he met Mai, there was Jet. (Companion to my Maiko Month entries "Modern", "Protection", and "Promise."

**Prompt: AU**

The tree-house had lasted only half a summer before collapsing, taking Zuko and Jet with it, but the ladder's still there: splintered chunks of 2-by-4 nailed in a haphazard line up the trunk. Jet takes a firm grip on the bark with gloved hands and quietly hoists himself up.

The lowest branch is more than twenty feet up and too thin to carry his weight anymore—he slides around and between, using knots when the planks run out, shimmying to where the roof overhang gets within jumping distance of the trunk.

Nails still stick up out of the bark, bent and rusted, trying to bite through the rough leather of Jet's gloves. He inches out along a branch, listening for it to crack, then oh-so-slowly rises onto the balls of his feet, preparing for the jump.

This is dangerous work—Jet's visible from at least two upstairs windows including Azula's, and if anyone steps out on the back porch, they'd only have to glance up to see him, silhouetted by the buzzing porch light. So he takes a deep breath, arms outstretched, closing his eyes and listening. There were no lights in the house that he saw on approach, but that doesn't mean anyone's asleep.

Real faint, he can hear the buzzy whine of what might be the TV in the back den—Zuko's mom and her talk shows. Jet had seen her come back to the house with Zuko that afternoon, helping him with his bag, guiding him up the steps with one hand while Ozai slammed the car doors and trudged after them, scowling.

Ozai's the real problem. He could be asleep, on the opposite side of the house, or he could be sitting at the kitchen table with an empty glass and an open bottle, right beneath where Jet will land.

He's done this a million times before, but tonight it's worth the wait. So he pulls in a deep breath and holds it, listening.

Kitchen's empty, but just when he's about to jump, he hears the squawk of the screen door opening on the other side of the house—then the clatter and crash as it closes. The car engine takes a while to grumble over, and then he hears four bald tires squeal away down the gravel-dusted road. A few minutes later the TV buzz cuts out, and the house almost heaves a sigh into the silence.

A face appears in one of the upper windows—half a face, really, with the rest hidden beneath loose bandages, and Jet slips sideways, cursing, landing on his elbows with an awkward thump, just over the roof's edge.

"Jet, what are you doing?" Zuko whispers furiously, shoving his window clumsily open and reaching out over the sill. "Are you _crazy_?"

"'M alright," Jet says as airily as he can manage while scrambling to hook his leg over the gutter. "Just, y'know, that one damn branch."

He gets all four limbs up and lies a moment on his back to catch his breath, before jumping up and sauntering oh-so-casually to Zuko's bedroom window.

"You're not supposed to be here," Zuko whispers fretfully, stepping back as Jet climbs inside. "If my dad—"

"Your dad's gone," Jet says with a shrug, settling cross-legged in the moonlight beneath the window, as Zuko picks his careful way back to his bed. "He took the Airship out, and he's probably gonna have it in a ditch in a coupla hours."

Zuko doesn't laugh at the familiar joke, gingerly adjusting the bandages before pulling up his blankets with the same hand. The other arm hangs stiff at his side, bulky beneath his pajama sleeve. He sits small and compact against the pillows, knees to his chest.

The uncovered eye seems overlarge and set deep in its socket, full of worry where the rest of Zuko's face is oddly, deliberately flat. He frowns a little, watching Jet as Jet watches him.

"How come they took all your hair?"

Zuko runs a hand self-consciously over the slight dusting of stubble that's replaced his usually-tangled mop.

"Th-they didn't want it to get stuck in the burn or infected or something," he says quietly, ducking his chin down. Jet sets his lower lip between his crooked teeth and sucks in a breath.

"I'm gonna kill that son-of-a-bitch."

"I shouldn't've been—" Zuko says quickly, leaning forward, and the sincerity stings. "It's my fault for getting in the way. Mom would've been able to—he wasn't aiming to hurt her, and she could've absorbed the—"

But Jet's heard all these excuses before. He waits them out, in patient silence, chin on fists, elbows on his knees, never breaking his stare, as Zuko starts to tear up and his voice gets thick and sad.

"He didn't mean it. He didn't mean to—he said I got in the way and I should know better than to—I _do_ know better, I just got _so mad_ and I was scared for Mom and—sh-she said I'll probably be able to see, no problem, when the bandages come off."

He's crying now, but quietly, just tears spilling over, as he sniffs and pulls at threads in the blanket.

"Mom thinks maybe I should go stay with Uncle Iroh for a while, but I don't really want to. He's old and funny, but his house always smells like stale tea."

Zuko sniffs again, chewing his lip.

"I-it doesn't even hurt," he whispers. "Just, well, it hurt at first but now I can't feel it—I can't really feel any of it and..."

That's the end, like always. Zuko dissolves into quiet sobs, and Jet climbs up on the bed, pulling Zuko into a hug. He's careful of Zuko's left side, holding firm to his right, resting his cheek against Zuko's scratchy scalp.

There's a whole row of pills lined up on Zuko's bedside table, right next to a big dusty glass of water with tiny bubbles escaping up from the bottom. A half-closed bag sits on the floor right below, haphazardly stuffed with clean gauze and medical tape. Jet can feel the bandages stretching from Zuko's shoulder and tries not to imagine the amount of fire necessary to do such damage.

A shuffling at the door makes Zuko jump, but Jet doesn't let go. It's just Azula, pushing the door with one hand while the other stays clamped around her stuffed komodo-rhino.

"You're not supposed to be here," she says to Jet, glaring.

"Go 'way, 'Zula," he mutters, but she pushes all the way into the room and then carefully closes the door behind her.

"Dad said no visitors," she hisses to Zuko, lifting her wrinkled nightdress to itch her stomach. Jet looks away with a twinge of disgust.

"Dad's not home," Zuko sniffles against Jet's shoulder. "Leave me alone."

"We still gotta follow the rules, even when Dad's not home," Azula replies. "I'm _telling_."

"No, 'Zula, _please_ don't," Zuko begs, snapping up, visible eye wide with fear. Azula crosses her arms, glaring still, and then shoves an open hand in Jet's direction.

"This is extortion," Jet grouses, groping in his back pocket for a silver. "I read about it."

Azula nibbles the edge to test the metal, and then, satisfied, she curls up at the foot of Zuko's bed like a prickly cat, staring at Jet with those luminous yellow eyes.

"Aren't you homeless?" she asks in a severe whisper.

"No," Jet snaps back. "I _ran away_."

"Mom said if I see you in the park, I'm not supposed to talk to you," she continues loftily, as though he hadn't spoken. "I saw you when I was there with Ty Lee last week. Mom says you're a _vagrant_."

"You ran away?" Zuko repeats. "For real this time?"

"It was real every time," Jet replies peevishly. "Just this time they ain't gonna find me. Haven't noticed yet. Probably won't until school calls."

"It's been two weeks," Azula says. "School _already_ called, dum-dum."

Jet blinks.

"Oh."

He frowns but shrugs, slipping his hand into Zuko's.

"Then I guess they just don't care. Whatever. 'S how I wanted it."

Azula pulls a box of tissues from the floor and passes them up towards Zuko, who had been trying to clumsily wipe his nose with his sleeve.

"Anyway, I got a place to live. Got a couple other people, too. We're sort of a collective."

"Did you read about _that_, too?" Azula whispers scornfully.

A creak on the stairs silences them. For ten minutes, they all sit perfectly still, listening for more, but nothing comes.

"Stupid old house," Zuko mutters. "I hate this place."

"Then come with me," Jet says. "C'mon, there's plenty of space."

"But Dad will—"

"Fuck your dad, okay?" Jet snaps, and they both flinch.

"Keep your voice down," Azula whispers.

"Look, just fucking forget your dad. He won't come after us, okay? And if he did—we'd pick up and go somewhere else."

Zuko still looks uncertain.

"Mom says—"

"What? He's really sorry and he really loves you and he'll never do it again?"

Jet sighs, looking away, and his eyes fall on Zuko's desk, piled high with sketchbooks and broken charcoal pieces.

"Mom's supposed to change my bandages," Zuko says quietly. "The nurses showed her how."

He lifts his good hand again and presses on the gauze. There's a faint orange stain in the center, soaking through from beneath.

"Show me," Jet sighs.

o.o.o.o.o

They were four-and-a-quarter, four, and two when they all first met on this playground. Zuko and Azula are mirrors of their toddler selves, standing in sullen silence beneath a dead oak. If he was keeping the pattern, then Jet is supposed to approach from the hedges behind the sandbox, but he's all the way towards the southern corner and anyway the hedges are ringed by squawking moms. All of them studiously avoiding even the slightest glance towards Zuko's messily-bandaged face.

"I had to do it myself," Zuko says quietly, shifting the bag on his shoulder. "Mom...left. Last night. While we were sleeping."

"What about—?"

"Still around."

Jet nods, taking the bag from Zuko and slinging it over his own shoulder.

"Coming, 'Zula?"

"No," she says, making a face. "Dad _likes_ me."

She shrugs off Zuko's hug and twists away closer to the tree.

"I won't be far away, if you ever need me, okay?" Zuko says, shoving his good hand into his coat pocket and tearing it at the edges.

"Who'd ever need _you_, dum-dum?" Azula sighs, but her frown is more sadness than pout. She crosses her arms and watches them all the way down the block.

Zuko pauses at the curb, reluctant to step down and away. With a kind firmness, Jet takes his hand, half-turned.

"C'mon, then," he says, and Zuko follows.

They cross the bridge and five or six train tracks, sliding down a gravel incline and ducking through the broken slats of a fence topped in rusted wire.

"It's great," Jet keeps saying, as they duck into and out of the narrow alleys running between empty old buildings. "You'll love it."

They end up outside what used to be the tire factory, almost dead-center of the whole abandoned complex, its doors and windows recently cleared of kudzu. Most of the glass is intact—remarkable, considering the auto plant's been shut down longer than either of them have been alive.

The wide dock door screeches open, and the darkness beyond looks more inviting than everything Zuko is leaving behind.

"Everyone's already inside."

Jet's watching him, so Zuko offers a half-smile. It's the best he can do with the bandages, but Jet smiles back.

o.o.o.o.o

There's a whole philosophy to it, apparently. Everyone he recognizes—everyone he remembers being allowed to play with when Mom was around—filter in and out, sometimes sleeping over, sometimes going back to their parents', but they listen to Jet's lectures and rants, and they eat, and they work to make the place livable. For a while, though, Zuko and Jet are the only permanent residents.

Jet takes good care of him: cleaning the burns, bandaging, setting out the pills Zuko needs when he needs them. At night they share a pallet of stolen blankets, and Jet reads his books aloud by the flickering light Zuko holds between his hands.

At first, Zuko tells himself he'll keep on with school. It might be nothing but a capitalist automaton factory to Jet, but school was the one place Zuko felt safe, and anyway he'd be able to keep an eye on Azula from there. But he misses Jet, having such close contact after years of being kept apart by their parents and Jet's inability to stay in one place for too long.

It's the stares and whispers, really, that drive him away. The bandages stay on up until the last week of school, when Jet agrees, reluctantly, to take them off. Smellerbee brings a mirror and then disappears somewhere outside.

"Just hold still, dammit," Jet mutters, unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Smoking's his new thing, and Zuko doesn't mind so much. Jet wiggles the scissors, and Zuko tries very hard not to flinch.

The light hurts like hell—he has to squint, and hopes that's the only reason for the blurriness. Jet sits back on his heels, nervously chewing his lip, as Zuko scrabbles for the mirror.

For a long time, he just stares, turning his head left and then right, testing the edges of the raw red skin with his fingertips. They kept his hair shaved close, and Zuko rubs his scalp over and over.

Tears hurt worse. He finally looks away, into Jet's eyes, speechless and empty.

"I don't care," Jet says fiercely. "Understand? Makes no difference to me."

He pulls Zuko in, arms tight, and his lips just feather past Zuko's cheek.

o.o.o.o.o

Their first real kiss happens on Zuko's fourteenth birthday, while they're sitting up in the loft in a comfortable silence. Jet moves suddenly, one hand on Zuko's shoulder, the other brushing his scarred cheek, and suddenly his face—a face Zuko's known for years, smiling, laughing, snarling, smirking—suddenly his face is so close and so certain.

He tastes like cigarettes, and his skin smells vaguely of warm milk. The whole factory is empty but for the whisper of insects rasping beneath the summer moon, and when Jet breaks away, Zuko leans back a little and licks his lips.

He'd never have thought it himself, but having Jet this close feels right somehow, feels like the obvious answer to an unasked question.

With a shy little smile, Zuko kisses him back.

o.o.o.o.o

In summer, they run grift on the tourists. In fall and spring, they scam the few locals dumb enough to still pity them. Winter, they keep warm around Zuko's fire.

The factory's population evens out eventually, and Jet decides this new society ought to have a name. The Freedom Fighters, culled from the unloved, unwanted, unnoticed. Zuko makes occasional appearances at his mom's new place—she's back with her old boyfriend, Ikem, that fucking waste-of-space—and when his uncle visits, Jet sets out something nice for him to wear.

In their downtime, they read and talk and teach the younger kids the stuff they remember, the stuff they still think is useful. Life in the collective isn't easy—there's still fights, still a need for privacy and personal space. Jet and Zuko have the only room with a door, but nobody complains.

Sometimes they don't have a lot of food, and the factory's too cold, and the cops come too close, but still it's perfect. Zuko turns fifteen and then sixteen.

He's always expecting Ozai to come barging in, but they only see the Airship a few times, downtown, blasting through intersections and each year another panel smashed in. He feels a little guilty for not keeping up with Azula, but when he passes the middle school on his way somewhere with Jet, she seems okay.

o.o.o.o.o

Longshot brings him a newspaper, page folded down, and waits beside the table as he reads. Jet gets halfway through the first paragraph and then stops, feeling sick. He can hear Zuko outside, messing around with Smellerbee, their laughter echoing between the walls.

With numb fingers, Jet takes the newspaper out and hands it over, while Longshot gestures everyone inside and away.

He doesn't watch, staring down at his shoes while Zuko reads, his breath hitching. The paper smolders beneath his fingers.

"They let him out?" Zuko whispers, thick with anger. "He did that to her, and _they let him out?_"

"Government likes their bail money."

Zuko shoots up suddenly, the paper crumpling into ash.

"She's not there," Jet says. "She won't be. They'll take her in, or send her on to your mom."

"Great fucking use she was," Zuko snarls.

Mist starts up, peppering their shirts with pinpricks of water. Jet stands, reaching, but Zuko snatches his hand away.

"I just—I just need some time. To think."

o.o.o.o.o

He's careful on the ladder, but the tree shudders under his weight. Zuko's heart lives somewhere in his throat now, so he's more worried about throwing up than missing the jump. He takes a breath, aims, and pushes off.

The roof's slippery with wet fallen leaves. His foot knocks the gutter loose as Zuko scrambles up, tearing skin on an exposed nail. He wraps the stolen sweatshirt around his arm and punches out what used to be his bedroom window, ducking his chin to keep his eyes clear.

It smells like death inside, like garbage left to rot in the bin. He actually leaves footprints in the collected dust, forcing the door with his shoulder. He doesn't care about the noise—wants, even, for Ozai to appear at the foot of the stairs, bleary and furious.

Instead he finds his father in the den, sitting on the floor beside the broken TV set. There's no bottle visible in the half-light, but he can smell liquor from the doorway and stops there, every muscle pulled taut.

"How'd you get in here?" Ozai slurs, eyes making it only halfway up to Zuko's face before sliding back down. "Get out."

He hasn't been planning this for long and has no idea what to say. Flame envelopes both of his hands, of its own accord, climbing up his arms, and he's having trouble breathing, throat tightening up. Ozai isn't even getting up—he eyes Zuko's fists in silence, smirk unfolding clumsily.

"I'm gonna kill you," Zuko whispers.

The cops find him a few hours later beneath the bridge, trying to scrub the soot from beneath his fingernails. He goes quietly enough, trying to remember everything Jet ever taught him about being arrested.

"Your dad's gonna be fine," the booking officer grunts, pressing Zuko's ink-blacked fingers onto the paper. "Lucky it just rained, or the whole house would've collapsed on him, and you'd be in a lot more trouble."

"Lucky," Zuko repeats later, when he's alone in the holding cell, fingernails digging into his kneecaps.

o.o.o.o.o

Jet's stomach twists in on itself.

He can see Zuko hunched at the end of the table, in prison grey, chains linking his hands and his ankles, silent as the judge reads out the sentence.

"Too many cops," Pipsqueak growls beside him. "No chance. We should get out of here."

It feels a little like drowning—like someone's holding him under, as Zuko stands, shoulders bowed, and shuffles through a door off to the side. Below, the courtroom shuffles, another kid dragged forward to face punishment.

Longshot's hand closes over Jet's shoulder.

"There's nothing for it," Smellerbee whispers, soothing as she can. "It sucks, Jet, but we've gotta go before it's one of us."

"He _was_ one of us," Jet snaps.

"I know."

She holds his hand the whole way back home, where he wanders between the rooms, listening for the echo of a laugh that's never coming back.


End file.
